


Old Hurts Ache in the Cold

by amireal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birthdays, First Kisses, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, New Year's Eve, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve with a bunch of drunk agents is the last place Phil Coulson wants to be. Thank god he's not on duty and he's got an amazing view.</p><p>OR</p><p>Phil Coulson is a Mature Adult. And Mature Adults do not get upset about the same things children do. He knows that. He does. But he can be morose, adults can be morose, right? </p><p>OR</p><p>Clint Barton ruins all his plans. All of them. But at least he brings great booze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday TO ME! Ever since I started writing fanfic, I've wanted to have something ready to post on my birthday. Birthday feedback sounds really awesome, you know? So guess who finally managed it? *points* THIS GUY! :P
> 
> Have fun. This was originally a NYE inspired prompt, but it's not really about NYE. Have a little fluff and angst in honor of me getting older.

It’s beautiful outside. 

When the door closes behind him, Phil is enveloped in a blanket of stars and stillness. It’s dark and cold and the only things he can see are twinkling stars and the refraction of light through the ice coated trees. He’s going to regret skipping his gloves, but his coat was too many crowded hallways between him and peace.

The ice storms have let up enough for the world to look uncommonly beautiful and if he tries hard enough, he can ignore the pressing weight of an entire city behind him. In front of him is a waterfront and he can just about pretend that’s all there is until another wave of sound comes from the party behind him. He doesn’t begrudge anyone their new years fun, Phil is just especially maudlin during the holidays this year. 

Maybe he’s getting old. Maybe he spends too much time close to people he adores. Yes, adores. Full stop, finds everything about them amazing and special and sometimes so far away that it makes his hands cramp in loneliness.

Yeah, it’s definitely that he’s getting old. He sighs and wonders if maybe he should grab that second and third glass of the fine scotch behind the bar. There’s only a handful of people here who would disregard the open bar for a $100 a glass booze they could never properly appreciate anyway.

He chooses to focus on nearby branch, amazed at how thoroughly and evenly the weather has changed it. Coated it. It glistens in the moonlight and reminds Phil of those crystalline figures that every grandparent he’s ever met seemed to have. He manages thirty seconds of blissful contemplation when a quiet voice comes from behind him.

“You’ll miss the ball,” Clint’s voice seems hushed, the openness in front of them swallowing up his usual boisterous volume.

By the skin of his teeth and twenty years of service does Phil avoid actually jumping feet in the air in surprise. If anyone asks, he totally heard Clint slip outside because that sliding door has a squeak and only a junior agent would miss that.

That’s exactly what happened and no force on this Earth (ha!) will get Phil to say otherwise.

“It’ll come around again,” Phil shrugs, slowly unfurling his tightly fisted hands. “At least, that’s the rumor.”

Clint slides up next to him, silent and graceful and Phil holds his breath waiting to see if this is one of those off duty times where banana peels seem to be magnetized to find the bottom of Clint’s feet. When Clint is still upright ten seconds later, Phil relaxes and thanks karma and the universe for the break. Unlike Phil, Clint seems a little more prepared for the weather, with fingerless gloves on his hands a huge scarf wrapped a million times around his neck, still miraculously leaving his mouth free obstacle free.

“Here,” he says, again so quietly it’s like Clint’s voice blends into the soft lapping of water under their feet, “don’t let the glass fool you, it’s the good stuff.”

Clint slides a plastic cup full of dark liquid along the wide, flat surface of the banister they’re both leaning against.

Phil looks down at it and blinks, not understanding at first.

“They wouldn’t let me take a glass out here. Something about ice and slipping. I think the bartender saw Lee’s attempt at a cartwheel and figured we were all that dumb.”

Phil gives Clint a look.

Clint shrugs, a knowing lilt to his face. “Yeah okay, no comment. Take your drink already.”

Phil does, his fingers already a bit numb from the cold. He closes them carefully around the cup and pauses it under his nose before sipping. He recognizes the smell before he even finishes swallowing. Burnt leather tickles his senses even as the warm flush of decadent alcohol hits his stomach. He closes his eyes to savor the sensation, letting out a quiet hum of appreciation when it’s done. 

Phil smiles at Clint when he opens his eyes back up. “I know for a fact this wasn’t included in the negotiated open bar.” Phil struggles to keep his smile real and genuine, but it’s hard. “Thank you, though.”

Something passes over Clint’s face and he almost makes it back to his usual innocent but competent visage and then he shakes his head. “Is everything okay?”

Phil takes another sip and nods. “My check in with Fury was over two hours ago, but there was nothing on the—“

“I can’t decide if you’re deflecting,” Clint interrupts, sounding more than a little annoyed, “or if you genuinely don’t expect someone to ask you if you’re okay.”

If it weren’t so cold, Phil is sure the red on his cheeks would be a blush. “I—“ his mouth flaps in what he’s sure is an indecorous manner but he can’t come up with a good response. So he closes it and shrugs. “Risks of the business I suppose,” he finally says.

“If you ask me,” Clint says turning his body to face Phil, hip leaning casually against the wood, “that’s the worst one. Forgetting that there are times it’s okay to be human.” His shift in position hasn’t moved him any closer, but Phil feels like Clint has just slipped a little bit into his personal space. 

Phil resists the urge to pull away, slowly but forcefully relaxing his muscles until he at least feels less like a knotted ball of yarn. Clint is still a warm and tempting presence to his side that makes it hard to think when Phil feels like this. The booze doesn’t help. “I’m tired,” he finally says when Clint’s patiences outlives his own. He must be, even on Clint’s most stubborn days, it’s rare that Clint can make him break first.

Clint continues to stare, though his eyes soften just a bit.

“I think I’m just tired.” Phil let’s some of it out, changing his declarative statement to more of a guess. He is tired, but this feeling that drove him out and away from the party is heavier than fatigue, even the chronic type that can plague a workaholic like him.

Something in Clint’s stance releases, he doesn’t move but there’s a tension that disappears. “When’s the last time you relaxed?” He punctuates it with a playful shove before returning to his lean.

Phil opens his mouth, sure that he had something to say. A quip, a movie, even a novel, but he has nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Can I count political coups?” He asks a little desperately.

Clint makes a face. “I _want_ to say yes. Believe me, it physically pains me to not make that joke.” He mimes an arrow through the heart. “But I’m pretty sure those circles under your eyes aren’t a trick of the light, also you’re shivering. Come on.”

His lips twitching with amusement, Phil follows Clint back inside. Clint’s right, the cold was getting to him and Phil can admit that he’s curious about where Clint will lead him. They’ve worked together long enough that Phil can tell Clint isn’t just bringing him back inside the party to warm up. In fact, he skips the french door entry way back into the main ballroom entirely and takes Phil in through the side door that needs a room key to open. Phil lets out a grateful breath when it becomes obvious he’s not going to have to walk through that loud, suffocatingly full room of agents who will all notice their exits, despite their blood alcohol levels.

Clint takes him on a roundabout but private route to the vending machine room on the second floor. He digs out his wallet and plastic bag from his pockets. 

He catches Phil’s curious stare and waggles his eyebrows. “Incredibly useful, but 99% of the time non incriminating.”

Phil nods and then something sparks in his memories. “Is that what happened in—“

“Maybe,” Clint cuts him off and starts feeding the machine in front of them. He buys three bags of microwave popcorn, 4 bottles of water, 2 bags of M&Ms and deluxe sized bag of ChexMix. Phil spends the whole repetitive (money, money, letter, number, spiral moving, food drops, start over) time consciously not keeping a mental tally of the overpriced snack food costs. It’s difficult.

Clint’s room is relatively neat, the biggest sign that someone has been living out of it for over a week is a slightly over stuffed suitcase with bits of clothing hanging out of it and used towels hanging off the bars. While the bed might not have hospital corners, it’s made well enough, that is until Clint drops his bag into the middle and flops in after it.

“So,” Clint says after he finishes fishing for the remote control. It wasn’t lost so much as a half inch further than his regular reach. Phil watched in amusement as Clint resisted moving even a single inch while retrieving it. “There’s Over Price Recently Released Comedy or Totally Free Ten Years Old But Still Hilarious Comedy.”

That Clint doesn’t give him any indication what either movie is feels par for course but it makes Phil smile and he suspects that’s what Clint was after in the first place.

Phil eyes the bag of overpriced junk food with guilt. It’s just that he hasn’t actually watched a movie still in theaters in a very long time and suddenly, it seems really important that he do so.

“Money no object,” Clint interrupts his train of thought, “My treat. Think of it as a late Christmas gift, or an early birthday gift.”

Phil’s shoulders tense involuntarily. Shit. It’s not something he wants to talk about, if only because he sounds painfully selfish and childish when he does. And it tends to open up and deep, hot well of emotion that’s hard to put away again when he’s done. It takes him too long to recover, because Clint is already sitting up, that gentle slope of his brow crinkling in worry again.

Phil sighs and sits down in the nearest chair. “My birthday is, was the 26th. It’s… I got used to ignoring it a long time ago.”

“But you’ve been on the holiday shift list for _years_.” Clint’s face screams distress, in fact, his entire body does, with the way its gone rigid and closed. “Why would you—?”

“Because I can only take so many years of being told that everyone is too busy or tired or partied out or already out of town or 800 other things that children are allowed to feel bad about but that adults have to suck up and be mature about before I go stark raving made.” Phil’s voice has risen and his chest is heaving. He didn’t mean to yell, but it’s possible he’s been holding that in for years. “And I used it all up before I turned 18,” he says in a more subdued voice, eyes looking down and away from Clint’s. 

He spends a few minutes studying his fingers, going over long ago memorized lines and grooves. The familiar bumps of his once broken finger and the nail that was once torn completely out. The scar from the knife fight and the divot that never quite filled in from the bullet graze. There are days his scars make him feel complete, like without them he would not be the man he is and he likes that man. Mostly. Other days his scars make him feel old and far away from the baby pink skin of youth and innocence. Each imperfect edge another ring of age around him.

There’s a gentle touch on his shoulder and Phil looks up to find Clint has moved, silently, and is now standing directly in front of him. There’s a moment when their eyes meet and the crest of emotion inside of him threatens to bubble over. He catches it in time and Phil offers Clint a tired smile. It’s a familiar smile in his repertoire. “I’m gonna change out of this suit, you pick the movie.”

Clint doesn’t move.

“Clint?”

Clint blinks a few times and then finally takes a tentative step, but it’s further into Phil’s personal space, not away from it. Clint’s arms move and suddenly, Phil finds himself held around the shoulders, his face resting gently in Clint’s stomach.

Clint whispers “I’m sorry, that sucks.”

Phil doesn’t mean to crack, but when he opens his mouth to say something, anything, a choked sob wells up inside him. He inhales sharply, getting a nose full of cotton and Clint. It’s familiar and comforting and a whole bunch of other things he’s been avoiding. The shaking starts then and he finds himself clutching Clint back, hugging him tight, his arms wrapped firmly around Clint’s waist.

It feels childish to be choking back this much emotion and Phil feels incredibly lucky that Clint doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, there’s an occasional gentle stroke through his hair and Clint quietly tells Phil about his plans for the rest of their evening. He starts with the items on the room service menu he’s been thinking about and gradually makes it through eating, snacking, bathroom breaks and debating whether or not they should watch the second movie before Phil’s breathing finally evens out for more than a few breaths at a time.

By then his coat and tie feel stifling, but he’s loathe to let go. It’s a nice hug. It’s a generous hug. It’s Phil’s first genuine hug in a really long time. If he holds on, he won’t have to look Clint in the face, but the longer he holds on, the more likely it is that Clint will figure out everything else. Clint has an annoying habit of seeing everything and then some, at the most inconvenient times occasionally. 

One of Clint’s hands continues to stroke Phil’s hair, slower and slower, until finally, he stops, his fingers feeling suddenly fidgety against Phil’s scalp.

“I’m gonna pop the first bag of popcorn,” Clint sounds rough, “let me know when you’re ready?” Clint is still using his steady voice, despite the remnants of emotion left in it. It’s a voice Phil has almost exclusively heard through a headset. In person, he’s always found it disconcerting. Without the subtle flattening the comms give Clint’s Mission Voice, the texture of it, the patience, rubs over Phil’s nerves like electricity. Phil manages to sublimate a shiver into goosebumps.

“Sounds good,” Phil’s voice is steady even though he feels uneven inside. “Don’t burn it.” He adds absently, but with genuine mirth.

“One time!” Clint huffs and he releases Phil between one breath and the next. “One time and suddenly I’m a popcorn serial killer!” 

It’s easy to laugh at that and Phil’s arms release only seconds after Clint’s, who then turns on his heal and saves them both some awkward eye contact by grabbing the microwave bag and reading the instructions closely. Suspiciously close for someone who can hit the angel on the head of a pin at 50 paces, but Phil is thankful none the less.

Phil slips over to the connecting door, it’s been unlocked since check in and while they both appreciate the luxury of having not only their own beds, but their own bathrooms, there’s something comforting about know that if something goes wrong Clint won’t have to break a lock to get to him and vice versa.

He slips out of his suit, quickly, it’s strange to feel uncomfortable in it, but there are days every so often when even the finest cut cloth chafes him. Phil takes a few seconds to splash some water on his face in an attempt to wash away the worst of the last few hours. There’s something inside him that still feels shaky, there’s a faint urge to see how far Clint will follow Phil to check up on him, but Phil shakes his head and sighs. He pads back into Clint’s room barefoot, clad only in black sweat pants and a thin shirt. Clint is dressed similarly looking much more relaxed than he was in his semi formal (for Clint) wear.

“Burgers will be up in 45,” Clint doesn’t even look up from the onscreen menu, but Phil would bet anything that his appearance has been scanned the instant he stepped over the threshold. Clint’s peripheral vision is also legendary.

It’s not awkward, sharing the bed to watch the movie comfortably. They’ve shared sleeping bags and other cramped accommodations and there’s something freeing about sitting barefoot and cross legged on a bed laughing along with a good friend as they share a funny movie.

The knock on the door is almost perfectly timed for a slow point in the movie. There’s a flurry of movement while a table is wheeled in and bills are signed for but eventually they’re both sitting at the table with full plates waiting to be eaten. After years of working together, Clint knows how Phil likes his burger (and his steak, and eggs, and fruit salad) and fries. This is something they’ve done countless times, so there’s no tension in the quiet that happens when they’re stuffing their faces. 

Something like peace settles over them as they eat their fill. Phil is just popping the last bite into his mouth as Clint finishes off his tall glass of soda.

“Birthdays are hard,” Clint says as he carefully puts his glass down.

The last bite is suddenly harder to swallow, but Phil manages.

“For some people,” Clint repeats, “Birthdays are really hard. I understand, you know?”

Phil takes a few seconds to carefully wipe his mouth. That Clint is speaking from a place of knowledge takes a little longer to process. Suddenly he feels even more childish and selfish than before, he’s read Clint’s file, he understands _how_ to read Clint’s file and files like his. He knows the unsaid parts just as well as the ones explicitly written down. 

“Hey, no,” Clint shakes his head, “this isn’t a contest. That’s not what I meant. If Nat’s taught me one thing, other than sometimes I drop my left, is that we’re allowed to feel bad about things, even little things and no one can take that away from us.” While he’s speaking, he’s opening up the little compartment under the table where the food usually sits. There’s a rummaging sound, a dull thud and a quiet clank and then Clint’s arm reappears holding a deep amber colored bottle with a gilt edged label. It’s the same stuff as earlier. Phil’s favorite. 

“I hope this is okay, the stores are all closed and there weren’t many options at the hotel.” Clint gently places the bottle on the table between them. 

“I…” Phil tries to say something, but it’s a $600 bottle of scotch. Bought on a whim. For him. The label feels thick and decadent under his finger tips. The glass is sleek and expensive feeling. He doesn’t drink enough in a year to even make a dent. This gift will stay with him for a very long time. He swallows and clears his throat. “A toast?”

Clint’s face melts from its frozen, but hopeful, look into something sparkling and more genuine. His hand disappears again and snatches two heavy tumblers out from under the table.

Phil resists caressing the bottle, barely, and pours them each a few sips worth. It’s late and even with the food, they’ve both been drinking and it’s been a long week. It’s plenty for the moment.

The amber liquid looks rich and thick as it swirls in their glasses. Phil tips his in Clint’s direction in silent toast. Clint clinks against his gently.

“To Phil,” he says, a wisp of mischievousness twirling around him, “happy forty—?” He trails off, waiting for Phil to fill in the blank.

Phil narrows his eyes, but the annoyance is all faked. “Fifth,” he says succinctly.

Clint nods once. “Forty-Fifth birthday.”

Their glasses clink gently again and then they both sip their drinks.

“Mm,” Clint says as he finishes his swallow. “Not bad.”

Phil doesn’t take the bait, but he gives Clint a raised eyebrow for his troubles.

“So,” Clint smiles, standing, slowly gathering their plates and silverware in the center of the table so he can let the leaves down so he can get it out the door. “Divisible by five once again, how’s it feel?”

Phil snorts, from his seat, stacking the covers in front of him neatly. “Mathematical.” 

Between the two of them it doesn’t take long to wheel the table out of the room and shove the rest of the popcorn into the room microwave. They both climb back onto the bed, bags of pop corn and glasses of $600 scotch between them and hit play. When the lines start back up, Phil realizes he feels lighter than he’s felt in weeks, maybe months. It’s easier to laugh at the small jokes, where as the beginning of the evening it was like opening a rusty hinge.

Sometime between the end of the popcorn and the beginning of the M&Ms they’ve slid to the middle of the bed, thighs pressing warmly together.

When the credits roll, they reach for the remote at the same time.

“Wanna watch the free one next?” Clint asks quietly, eyes wide and hopeful. His hand stays wrapped around the control and Phil’s fingers, dry and steady.

Phil blinks, looks down to see their legs are almost tangled together and their hands are holding each other more than the remote and a small smile slowly grows. 

By now, the New Year has rung and the party is no doubt winding down, but no one is going to be getting up early if they can help it. Phil, for once, throws caution and work to the wind and decides that sleep can wait.

“Yeah,” he says, licking his lips and tasting salt, and chocolate and the tang of good alcohol. “I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

The movie starts, but Phil is too distracted by the feel of Clint slowly cuddling closer, their bare toes touching, calves slowly crossing at the ankles. 

Eventually Clint whispers, “Hey?” and Phil takes his eyes of the screen.

“Hmm?” Phil hums. In the low light of the room, Clint looks gorgeous. 

“Can I…” Clint half asks, already leaning, eyes dark and lidded.

His head feels heavy, like keeping their lips separated is breaking a natural law of physics, so he doesn’t even try. It’s a careful brush of a kiss, soft and sweet and more perfect than Phil could ever ask for.

When it’s done, they stay close, foreheads touching gently. Clint’s eyes slowly open and his smile is soft. “Hey,” he breathes out, “was that okay?”

Phil nods a little breahtless. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Good.”

There’s a moment of quiet.

“Okay then.” Clint takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna do it again?” It’s more permission than a question, but it’s so Clint.

“Okay.” Phil has to swallow a laugh, there’s a soft joy inside him now and it’s hard to contain. “Good to know.”

Clint huffs a laugh and then leans in. They trade kisses for a while, time goes a bit hazy for Phil so he’s not sure how long it goes on. Eventually, one of them yawns and it sets the other one off until finally they give in, curling up with each other under Clint’s blanket. Phil plays the little spoon, relaxing back into the curve of Clint’s body with a small happy sigh. Clint squeezes his hand and lodges his nose in the crease between shoulder and neck and let’s out a long breath.

**360 Days Later**

“Happy Birthday!” Clint says when Phil stops cold in his living room to find a brand new pile of presents. It’s not a mountain, only 3 or 4 gifts, most of which are hand sized or smaller, but it’s still more than he expected. They’re wrapped in just about any color but traditional holiday themes and are placed very carefully in an completely empty corner of the room. A corner which has been meticulously searched for every bit of holiday detritus that could be found. His other chairs have been arranged around the corner in a semi circle and a ribbon is tied them very much like a rope line would be.

Clint comes up behind him, kisses his neck and then guides him carefully into the very boring, non holiday chair.

“Welcome to Phil Land,” the the sign on the closest chair says, “Where there is no Christmas, only birthdays.”

Phil’s visions fuzzes up. He blinks a few times and is surprised to feel a wetness roll down his cheek. “Clint?”

Clint kneels down in front of him, kisses his hands and then pulls him into a tight hug. “Birthdays are hard,” Clint whispers roughly into his year, “and they shouldn’t be, if you can help it.”

Phil hugs him back and then leans in, puts his lips to Clint’s ear and says, “You are gonna come _so hard_ later.”

Clint’s laughter bursts over his skin like sunshine and Phil decides the rest of it doesn’t matter, this is already the best birthday he’s ever had.


	2. 364 Days Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a time stamp meme on tumblr. This was one of the responses. They asked for 364 days after the last scene. So here it is, a bit edited for content and grammar.

Thanksgiving feels strange. Lighter. Phil and Clint and a handful of other close friends, like most other years, plan a large and celebratory-like meal together but don’t really take the time off. In a lot of ways, that _is_ their holiday. While the original reasons this group of people found this 50/50 tradition have long since past, being together, off duty and then on, feels right. Despite having the 4am watch, Phil still feels like his shoulders are looser and his gate easier, despite being on duty. It actually makes everyone _else_ twitchy and it only makes Phil lay it on thick, whistling tunelessly but with an upbeat tempo which gives Sitwell a facial tick.

Clint finds it hilarious, but only expresses it on the private channel. Because way in the beginning, not long after their first handful of kisses, lips still sensitive and not still quite able to stifle his smile, Phil asked him for some concessions at work and Clint had beamed at him and said ‘of course’.

That was probably the day Phil knew he was done for, the end, that was it, nothing else would top this thing with Clint. It wasn’t that he’d never dated anyone who could and would make reasonable accommodations for his work, though dating civilians made that _less_ likely, it was the feeling that went through his chest when Clint said yes. And then every feeling thereafter when Clint went out of his way to do things because Phil liked to do things a certain way.

And it was the feeling redoubled whenever Phil would return the action with simple things like working dinner around the unusual range times Clint tended to need. 

All of that didn’t explain why Thanksgiving felt weird and while he’d started the day happily, by the end of it he’d come close to becoming a paranoid wreck. Until a soft, but offhand, comment from Clint had unwound him completely.

“Yeah,” Clint says to Melinda, “I’ve got christmas plans.” And Phil suddenly understands, the end of November is no longer the starting gunshot of weeks of pretending he’s a full grown adult who doesn’t want to throw a temper tantrum.

And that would be enough. More than enough. He soars through the weeks and not even an early, slushy, damp and gray day that typifies New York City in December can tamp down the tiny bounce in his step. On Christmas Eve, they’re half asleep on the couch, stuffed with the best take out that’s still open, sipping the good beer, full of a soft happiness that’s only partially the alcohol. It’s a good evening, if it was a movie it’d be fuzzy around the edges. Phil is just about to suggest a nap before moving on to the more aerobic plans Phil has in mind for the evening when Clint starts wiggling a little. He digs out a remarkably uncreased envelope from one of his many pockets and offers it to Phil.

Phil takes it from Clint, noting the thick paper and the gold leafing, wondering what on earth it could be. It was the kind of envelope that held invitations to charity balls. He pops the envelope open, its not sealed, and pulls out a matching off white card, thick and textured, with gorgeous, handwritten calligraphy, whose ink seems to sheen a bit in the light. It’s practically art in its own right. Then he reads it.

Next to him, Clint waits, psuedo-relaxed, something Phil has learned to read in the last few years. “I’m…” Phil says, voice a little scratchy, “being invited to my own wedding?”

Clint nods.

“On Christmas of next year?”

Clint nods again.

Phil blinks. “Just to be sure, it’s to you right?” 

Clint whaps him with a pillow. “You know, I’d bet if you asked anyone, it’d be me they’d accuse of being a moment ruiner.”

“I’m a dark horse,” Phil says, still staring at the invitations. “I… think I’m missing something?”

Clint’s eyes go a bit pinched. “You don’t want to marry me?”

Phil immediately ditches the invitations (someplace safe) and pulls Clint into a long, slow and slightly teriyaki flavored kiss. “Of course I want to marry you.” They’re both a bit breathless after that.

Clint nods. “Okay then.” He picks up the invitation and hands it back to Phil. “So when we get married, we’ll both have an important date during the holidays and you’ll,” Clint swallows and looks away, “you won’t be alone.”

“Oh.” Phil says, having trouble believing that Clint… well… that anyone would be this kind to him, that anyone would want to try this hard to make him happy. “I love you,” he whispers, tapping Clint’s chin back in his direction. “Now get ready to come your brains out.” Naps could wait.

Clint snorts in laughter and but rolls with Phil’s pounce. “That’s your answer for everyth—“ Clint’s words slur as Phil doesn’t waste any time getting started.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes belong to me, sorry! Thanks for reading!


End file.
